


White Noise

by noifsandsorbees



Category: The X-Files
Genre: AU, F/M, Fight the Future
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-04-29 17:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5136929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noifsandsorbees/pseuds/noifsandsorbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're 2,000 miles apart, but neither can let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There are always two clocks running in his head. Every glimpse of his watch followed by an automatic, nearly subconscious subtraction.

It’s eight a.m. here, six there. She’s just waking up, shuffling toward the shower in a silk robe, boiling water for tea on the stove as she stirs pollen into her yogurt. Nine p.m. and she’s running a bath, her dinner roasting in the oven. One a.m. and her eyes are fluttering closed, her breathing soft in his ear as he drifts off.

She calls him as soon as she gets home each night and they don’t say much. He turns on speakerphone and leaves his phone on the kitchen table as he washes dishes, next to him on the couch as he throws on a movie, cradled against his ear as he falls asleep. It’s almost like she’s there.

He listens to her chopping vegetables, setting the oven timer, singing off key with the radio. She never mutes him, even as she talks to her mother on her cell, sounding exhausted while endlessly trying to be strong. She lets him listen as she lowers herself into too-hot water, cursing every time.

Sometimes he’ll laugh, tease her for not waiting for it to cool down, and she’ll remind him of that time they almost had to go to the emergency room because he burned his mouth on pizza.

She’ll ask for details if he’s watching a game on TV, wanting to know what makes him cheer and what makes him groan. They’ve started renting the same movies on Friday nights and they watch with echoes through the phone.

But late at night, when they’re both in bed, he can always tell she holds the phone just as close as he does; sometimes he can swear that he feels her breath warm on his neck, other nights when she thinks he’s asleep he pretends not to hear her cry. But mostly there’s quiet filled with a future neither is ready to talk about.

“Mulder?” She’ll whisper when they need to break the silence.

“Scully,” he’ll respond, raspy and hushed. And they never need to say anything more.

He wonders what it would be like to have her here and kiss her so breathless that those were the only words they could laugh out, too high on each other for language.

He’s kissed her three times now, once in his hall, long and desperate, as she was about to walk out of his life forever. She’d kissed him back, bleeding tears onto his cheeks and clinging onto him like a lifeline, before pulling away. She was already in the stairwell by the time he understood she was gone, and his legs were too unsteady to chase her.

She’d called him later that night, her voice emotionless, betraying a frustration and sadness that only he could pick up on.

“Skinner won’t accept my resignation. He said to take the assignment, and he’d fight to get the X-Files reopened.”

Mulder didn’t respond and neither of them hung up, keeping their phones on them as they fell asleep.

She wouldn’t let him drive with her across the country that Monday, wordlessly making him promise that he’d listen to all the wiretaps he was asked to, run every background check and search through every inch of forest for missing persons without straying off the path, even if he saw Bigfoot. Be good, so I can come home, she’d said just by smiling sadly at him.

He’d leaned her against her packed car, cupped her face in his hand and kissed her gentle and slow, with all the promise of tomorrow, whenever that came. She’d pulled back and hugged him, tucking herself into his arms. He tried to memorize how each strand of her hair felt tickling under his chin, how his heart skipped a beat when he noticed she was breathing him in, how warm her forehead felt against his lips as they pulled apart.

Without thinking, he’d pulled his sweatshirt off his body and awkwardly pushed at it her. “In case it gets cold out there.” He was embarrassed for only seconds before she took it from his hands and kissed him on the cheek. After another moment, she pushed herself up on her toes and kissed him again. He wasn’t ready and her teeth clashed against his awkwardly. She was terrified, he thought, like she wasn’t sure she should be kissing him now, but couldn’t handle never having the chance again.

He’d wanted a redo, but she’d already lowered herself into her car and then she was driving away.

Now day after day he sits at his new desk upstairs, complacently listening in on wiretap after wiretap, working and accomplishing nothing meaningful. But for the first time in his life, his immediate goal is no longer to find proof of extraterrestrials and find Samantha; it’s to get the X-Files back and bring Scully home.

He thinks that maybe the FBI finally got what they wanted out of her. Scully ended up being the only way they could rein him in, they just didn’t know it would be like this.

Mulder eavesdrops on other people’s conversations during the day, takes in her breath like oxygen at night so he can make it through the next day and pictures her by his side every night in his dreams, chasing bright lights in the sky.


	2. Chapter 2

She’s late tonight, calling him almost at midnight and letting a heavy silence lie between them, broken only by the slamming of a door and the rush of the tap. Her steps are heavy, her sighs often. He can see her rubbing her temples, her eyes, tossing her clothes to the ground with an undignified thud.

It’s nights like these when he understands how deep their connection runs: her burdens and loss flowing through his veins, burning as her silence screams _I can’t take it anymore_. It’s the same way she stores his secrets and dreams deep in her heart, nudged up against her love of science and compelling her into action.

“Long day?” he asks after she’d lowered herself into the bath. He says it even though they never do this. They don’t talk about their lives and their days, classifying it all as small talk they had grown out of years ago. But tonight he can’t keep quiet, her stress too tangible for either to ignore.

“Has Skinner said anything to you about how much longer I have to be here? When he called me last week he had nothing.”

“No,” Mulder sighs. “He hasn’t.”

She’s quiet again and for once he’s uncomfortable letting it fester.

“I’m going stir crazy, I haven’t left DC or Northern Virginia in months,” he blurts out and then immediately wonders where the thought came from.

“Well, consider yourself lucky. It’s better than Utah.”

“Maybe you should prove that to me.”

She doesn’t respond, not right away, and he can swear his heart stops beating as he waits and waits and waits. He hadn’t been planning this, not at all, but now that it’s out there he’s not sure what he’ll do if she says no.

“When?” she finally asks, quiet and unsure.

“I can book a flight for Friday night, take a half day.” He’s trying to sound cool, but he’s sure she can hear the eagerness in his voice. The pleading for her to say yes.

There’s a shift from her end. He can feel it, can nearly see her smile from 2,000 miles away. She doesn’t respond, but this time she doesn’t have to.

He settles back against his bed, phone tight to his ear in the dark and the night carries on with an added glimmer of anticipation.

Mulder listens to the water splashing out of the tub, her humming quietly while dressing then shuffling underneath her own sheets. In three days he’ll be there and he lets himself imagine that he’ll get to fall asleep curled against her side. He doesn’t dare get his hopes up for more, actively quieting the part of his brain focused on how soon he can kiss her again, how perfect her breasts will fit in his hands, whether she’ll say his name when she comes.

And really, he’s not expecting any of that. He knows that three kisses probably won’t change anything, that he’ll spend the weekend on her couch, accepting the inevitable back pain as a reasonable trade off for seeing her for a few hours. It will be more than enough.

***

Three silent hours pass, and normally he’d have fallen asleep by now, but he’s hypnotized by the rhythm of their breathing falling into sync, the way he’d imagine it would if they were lying side by side. He’s seconds from finally drifting off, when her breath hitches and an unmistakable moan passes through her lips. He’s awake again instantly, mind flooded with images of her in bed, one hand between her legs, the other holding the phone against her ear.

“Jesus, Scully,” he groans before he can stop himself, his right hand reaching into his sweats and grasping his cock, already hardening.

The line goes silent and he knows she’s holding her breath, making sure he was just a hallucination, that he didn’t actually hear her. He wonders how often she’s done this while listening to him sleep and moans again at the thought. She still hasn’t exhaled.

“Don’t stop, Scully,” he orders, nearly begs, as his hand starts moving, his heart racing; he needs her to start again, needs it more than he needs life or air or proof of aliens.

Mulder hears her wet her lips and start breathing again, shallow and fast. She’s more vocal than he had imagined, quiet moans and grunts slipping out endlessly. He closes his eyes, absorbing the suddenly very real image of her touching herself, and he wants to ask what she’s thinking about, if he’s being presumptuous or if it’s actually him, if it’s his head between her legs or his cock buried deep inside of her, but he stops himself and simply lets their bodies speak to one another, whimpering incoherently across the line.

She lets out a choked cry as she comes, and it’s far more primal than he ever expected. It’s enough to make him follow, her name escaping his lips like a prayer as he recovers.

They don’t speak for a long moment, until she whispers “goodnight, Mulder.” He’s terrified she’ll hang up but she stays with him; he presses his phone tighter to his ear and starts counting down the hours until he’s with her.

***

Mulder is a mess of nerves the entire flight, sunflower seeds slipping from his fingers and shooting out of his teeth, much to the annoyance of his pelted neighbors. It’s been five months since he’s seen her. Five months of haircuts and wardrobe changes and FBI work, and what if he doesn’t even recognize her when he gets off the plane?

They’ve never done airports, not like this. Sure they’ve walked through half the ones in the country together, case files and rental car keys in hand, and they’ve slept on each other’s shoulders in countless waiting areas, but they’ve never picked each other up just because. No agenda, nowhere to be, nothing to say.

She’s standing by the gate when he walks out, with her hair resting just above her shoulders, the warm red his beacon in the crowded room. He’s amazed his legs can still hold him up at the sight.

Mulder walks up to her and fights the incredibly large grin threatening to take over his face. He wants to throw his arms around her and hold her close. He wants to kiss her, anywhere and everywhere. He wants to simply take her hand in his, just for a moment and squeeze her fingers. But he doesn’t do anything, because she’s looking up at him unsure of what to do and he thinks even the slightest movement closer might scare her away.

He stares at her, standing there completely incongruous with the loneliness that has surrounded him for the past few months, and the world stops spinning under him.

“Scully,” he says, voice firm, almost like a challenge.

“Mulder,” she deadpans back, meeting his eye and refusing to look away.

The corners of her mouth curl up and he thinks all is right with the world again.

***

None of her quirks during the drive to her apartment are new to him, but they charm him all the same. He’s transfixed with the way she licks her lips before turning and how dangerously close to the wheel she sits to reach the pedals without killing her back.

He wonders what she’d do if he grabbed her hand; he’s desperate, _desperate,_ for physical contact. She’s not quite avoiding him, he thinks, but she’s so focused in her movements, eyes tight on the road and checking each of her mirrors twice, _overcompensating because she doesn’t know what to do here_.

He reaches for her right hand on the center console just as she brings it up to the wheel for a tight left turn and he jerks to fidget with the radio, hoping she won’t notice his failed move. His eyes are still staring at her hands, with their unexpectedly crimson nails and characteristic perfect manicure.

If he can touch her, for just one second, he knows he’ll feel alive again. This is so much more than love, he realizes, more than sex and soulmates and friendship and need. He’s not sure what’s stronger than all of that, but he can feel it pulsing between them.

He thinks they could redefine human connection, if only he could thread his fingers through hers.

***

Mulder stands almost flush against her back as she sticks her key into her apartment door and his lips are so close to her neck that he’s tempted to brush them across it. Just for a second, just to see if she’d roll her head to the side and let him continue or if she’d grab his arm and break his wrist.

She adjusts his backpack over her shoulder as she pushes open the door and steps inside.

“Living room,” she says flatly with a sweep of her hand. “Kitchen, bathroom,” she mutters, pointing to each. She walks off and he follows, bringing his small duffle without thinking. “And, uh, here’s the bedroom,” she says once they’ve entered. She drops his backpack on the bed nonchalantly.

He had already assessed the couch, determining it was about a foot and a half too short for him to fit comfortably. But now he’s staring at his backpack on Scully’s queen bed, at her slipping her coat off next to him and laying it on her dresser, at her taking the bag from his hands and dropping it under the window.

Mulder takes off his coat, places it over hers, and walks up to her, hugging her from behind as she stares outside. His cheek rests flat against hers and her hands come to lie on top of his. He rises and falls with her deep breaths as she relaxes into him.

It’s snowing outside and he hopes it doesn’t stop, that it freezes over the roads and barricades their doors. These moments with her are fleeting and he needs them like oxygen.

“You wanna get some food?” she asks after a long while.

 _No. I don’t ever want to move,_ he thinks, but he peels his arms away and shrugs his coat back on.

***

Dinner is awkward; stilted and strange.

They have nothing to say. No case to talk about. Even _how was your flight?_ is too casual for them. So they eat quietly, more uncomfortable than they’re used to being.

When it’s too much to take, he reaches over and covers her hand with his, squeezing gently in a sign that’s more solidarity than intimacy.

She smiles at him through a mouthful of pasta, and it takes every bit of self control he’s ever had not to reach over and kiss the smudges of sauce from her bottom lip.

But he’s an expert; he’s been not kissing Dana Scully for years.

***

“What do you want to do now?” She asks as they walk through the parking lot, her glove-covered hands tucked under her elbows, the moon making the snow bouncing off her hair glow. His hands dig into his pockets, stopping himself from looping an arm through hers or laying his hand on her lower back. He can tell she needs to lead, even if she doesn’t know the way, but he’s entirely obsessed with the desire to touch her, something that’s always been second nature; she’s been too far for too long.

He shrugs and sits on the hood of her car.

“We’ve never really done this, have we?” He asks, awkwardly.

“Hung out? No, not really,” she says strangely, sitting down next to him.

Their eyes meet and she smiles, a laugh crackling through.

“I can’t remember the last time I just ‘hung out’ with anyone really,” she admits, her voice rising to mock the words that feel so foreign on her tongue.

“Me neither,” he laughs.

They sit there for minutes, until his shoulder becomes heavy and he turns to see her dozing against him. “C’mon,” he whispers, running a hand through her hair. “Let’s go get some sleep.”

She shakes herself awake and nods. “Let’s go.”

***

Mulder stands under her shower washing away layers of airport grime from his skin. He has soap and shampoo somewhere in his bag, but instead he lathers his body and hair with hers, too tempted by the scent of her to stop himself. He notes the names to buy them when he goes back to Washington.

There’s a clawfoot tub against one wall of the room — he thinks the enormity of the bathroom must be why she chose the apartment — and to its side is a folding table with a phone and three half-melted candles. He can’t help but picture her resting there, covered in bubbles and lit by soft orange light; he wants to crawl inside with her.

When he does re-enter the bedroom, with sweats hung low on his waist and a t-shirt sticking to his chest, she’s already half-asleep on the far end of the bed. He shuts off the light and crawls in beside her.

“So you just assume you’re sharing with me?” She teases, facing him on her side.

"The other night it seemed like you wanted me here," he shoots back, raising an eyebrow.

Even in the dark he can see her cheeks turn red, as if she actually thought he wouldn’t bring it up.

"I still can't believe you _did_ that."

"I can't believe _you_ did that,” he leers. “The real question though, for science of course, is how many times had it happened before?”

"You can go sleep on the couch," she groans, shoving a pillow at his face.

He places it under his head and brings his lips to her ear. "Goodnight, Scully,” he whispers, kissing her cheek before retreating to his side.

***

Jet lag wakes him at dawn, when only the slightest bits of sunlight are peeking through her blinds. _Scully’s blinds. Scully’s bed._

_Scully._

Scully drooling against her pillow, pajamas twisted around her body and hair caught in her mouth. Scully warming the bed against the endless snow sticking to the frost on the windows, even with her cold feet tucked between his calves.

Without thinking he moves over and wraps an arm around her. She slides effortlessly onto his chest and he falls onto his back. Mulder knows immediately that she’s awake, but he lets her pretend, reveling in being this close.

For a long while all he can think about is how he almost missed his chance to do this. How he’d almost lost her before he knew what it was like to fall asleep with her and wake up together, to hold her just because; to even dream that she’d want the same thing.

His firm grip on her says _I missed you, I need you_ better than words ever could, he thinks. She responds to his silent confession with a hand grasping at his chest, right over his heart.

“You’re up early,” she whispers against him.

“Did I wake you?”

“Yeah, but it’s okay.” She props her head up on his chest, lazily opening her eyes.

He wants to pause them at this blurry hour, when it feels like none of the laws that govern the universe and their brains and their hearts are at play. She leans forward and kisses him, slow and featherlight, and if it wasn’t for the fact that she stays there endlessly, he could almost believe it wasn’t happening. She nips his bottom lip, rolling it between her own before letting go and lying back down.

 _I’m glad you’re here,_ she’d said to him without muttering a word.

They don’t talk as the sun continues to rise, as Scully gets up to use the bathroom and then works her way back onto his chest, as they fall in and out of sleep for hours, as he makes them coffee and brings it to bed. They sit against the headboard, arm to arm, thigh to thigh, sipping from their mugs. Her eyes flutter closed when he kisses her shoulder, her temple, the top of her head.

“What do you want to do while I’m here?” he asks quietly, as if afraid of bringing reality back to the room.

She shrugs. “You didn’t give me much notice to plan anything, not that I’m complaining.”

He tries to remember what they’ve done on their days off together and sees an endless loop of paperwork, casual meals, hospital visits and chasing down leads off the clock. He’s not sure either of them really knows how to punch out and leave for the day, and his mind races to any X-file that could be close enough for them to investigate.

Scully nudges his shoulder with hers and he looks over to see a reassuring smile on her face. “We’ll get better at this.”

It’s the first time she’s seemed confident in the last few months, confident in herself and him and them, whatever they are (and, _god_ , he thinks they might actually be something). He shifts his mug into one hand and brings the other to her cheek, leaning down and kissing her sweetly.

She breaks away after a few moments, tensing slightly and avoiding his eyes, as if she has suddenly gained an uncomfortable awareness of how close they are, and slides off the bed.

“I’m going to shower,” she says, placing her cup down and gathering a handful of clothes. He stands and follows her, making it as far as the door before she turns around, glancing up at him with scared, wide eyes for just a second before disappearing behind it with a click.

He pouts, trying not to overthink the change in her mood, and walks back to the bedroom, truly taking in his surroundings for the first time. The room almost looks unlived-in, he notices. There are no pictures on the walls or the dressers, no curtains or extra furniture. Her clothes are spread out around the uncharacteristically messy floor and he spots the sleeve of his sweatshirt peeking out under her pillows.

He pulls it out and brings it to his face. It smells overwhelmingly like her now and he pictures her wearing it while they don’t talk at night, the first time he’s allowed himself such an indulgence. Oh God, he suddenly thinks, _what if she was wearing it that night? Just Scully and his sweatshirt against her chest, their shared orgasms and her wiping her wet fingers across the sleeve._ His knees buckle slightly and he has to sit down. Before he leaves he’ll replace it with the Knicks hoodie he brought and take the one that smells like her back to Washington, but for now, he tucks it away.

Mulder walks over to the window and opens the blinds. He watches the snow build and build and build, covering car tires and weighing down tree branches. Kids are building snowmen and igloos and parents are shoveling and getting nowhere as the snow keeps beating down. For once the universe has his back, he thinks.

Scully joins him and his heart sinks when he sees she’s back in jeans and a loose sweater, her arms crossed and three feet between them. She’s backtracking, running away from the woman who laid comfortably with him all morning and kissed him just because she could.

“What’s really funny,” she says suddenly, still staring out the window, “is that they only have me doing paperwork. Menial tasks that any agent could handle. Work I could easily do from Washington with only a fax machine and a computer.” Her laugh is bitter, sarcastic. He wants to bottle it and throw it far out to sea, make sure it’s never tempted to make a home in her again.

“Scully,” he starts, shocked by her unprompted candor, but she cuts him off by walking out of the room.

He counts to sixty, just long enough to give her the space he knows she needs, before walking into the kitchen. He finds her facing away from him, slicing an apple on the countertop and hugs her from behind. She stiffens noticeably, as if it’ll make him go away, make him think she doesn’t want this. He stays, moving his hand only to grab a slice and toss it in his mouth.

“Tell me more,” he urges after a minute, because she never talks about work, never talks about how much she hates it here, even though he can feel it in every exhausted sigh.

She shakes her head, focusing on keeping the knife steady. “It’s nothing,” she sighs. “I’m just frustrated, but it’s nothing.”

“Liar,” he whispers, kissing her temple. He takes the knife out of her hand and lays it down on the cutting board. Scully takes a deep breath and he turns her around in his arms. He places a lingering kiss on her forehead before bringing his head to rest on hers, searching for her eyes as she looks down at the floor.

“Why shouldn’t I just quit the bureau and start practicing medicine back home?” She states this is a fact, neither welcoming his arguments nor discouraging them.

He sighs, not entirely disagreeing with her, but not ready to give up his partner, no matter what he may gain in return.

“Give it a few more months, okay? Skinner is pulling as many strings as he can. Don’t make all of our work these last few years be for nothing. You know how much I need you on this, Scully.”

And then she lunges forward and kisses him, in what he assumes is an excuse to end the conversation before uttering anything more revealing. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him close; there’s a passion in this kiss unlike any she’d initiated before, an argument and a breakdown condensed and boiled down to their most primal forms.

He kisses back, pushing his tongue into her mouth and caressing it against hers, because they’ve always been better at communicating without words. He works one arm around her lower back and another under her ass and she jumps up into his arms, never breaking apart as he carries her to the bedroom.

Mulder lays her down on the bed amongst the rumpled sheets and stands back for a second to take in the image. She’s taking deep breaths again, nervous under his glare, chest and stomach heaving as she waits for him to make a move. He bends one knee onto the mattress, leaning over her until they’re face to face again. “It’s just me,” he whispers as he tucks a stray piece of her hair behind her ear.

“I know,” she whispers back. He takes her hand in his and pulls it against his chest, spreading her fingers to feel the rapid beating of his heart. _We’re in this together, sooner than we ever dreamed, overwhelmed and slightly lost, but together._

She arches up to kiss him, hand clenching to grasp his shirt, until his body is flat against hers, his hips grinding down roughly and her leg wrapping around his thigh to pull him closer. Their kisses quickly become sloppy as his cock rubs shamelessly against her center, and he nearly comes from the heat he feels from her rising up to meet each thrust. Mulder pushes his fingers up underneath her sweater, scratching at her abs as her hands sneak through his boxers to cup his ass. He smirks against her mouth and she bites his lip into her mouth before kissing him again.

She pulls away, their heads falling back so her breath is warm in his ear, and as she pushes up against his cock he realizes that if they don’t slow down he’s going to finish before he can so much as take her shirt off.

Mulder sits back, untangling himself from her legs and freeing her hands from his sweats. She stares at him, confused, until he reaches for the button of her pants. He pushes it through the hole, inches her zipper down, and peels the denim off. He trails his hands down her legs, basking in the softness of her skin, before pushing the bottom of her sweater up. Her fingers meet his as she takes over, pulling it over her head.

Scully’s confidence from before is waning, he realizes as she lies beneath him covered only in lace, a stark contrast to the practical cotton he’s seen her in before. He swallows hard, bending down to catch her lips again, then lowering to kiss any skin he can reach. His tongue and lips tattoo _you’re beautiful_ again and again on her neck, the hollow of her throat, the dip of her collarbone, the swell of her breasts, the curve of her shoulder.

He feels her relax again underneath him, muscle by muscle. She’s not entirely giving herself over, he thinks; she’s still biting down on her lip to stay quiet, even though he already knows she’s anything but.

Mulder’s hands snake behind her back and unclasp her bra and he nudges it off her front as he wraps his lips around a nipple. He moans hard against her as his hand roughly palms her other breast. _This is Scully,_ he thinks, completely overwhelmed as he memorizes each bump under his tongue, the weight of her in his hand and the way she arches into him, whimpering as her lip falls free.

Mulder pulls away and kisses her again, his mouth desperate to taste more and more of her. She tugs on his T-shirt, and he pulls it over his head, gasping as their chests press together once their lips meet again.

He draws away the second her hips buck into him; there’s so much more he needs to do before this ends. He presses his forehead into hers, sharing breath to make the room stop spinning.

Lowering himself on the bed, Mulder rests his head between her thighs and stares at her in near wonder. He loops his fingers through her panties and pulls them down, his mouth following their path down her legs. He can smell her, even with his nose pressed against her calf, the thought alone making him almost come again, and he wonders if he stands a chance of lasting. He makes his way back up her slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the insides of her thigh before burying his head between her legs.

The second he breathes over her she jerks away and he looks up to see her chest rising and falling rapidly. “It’s been a while — just a little sensitive,” she laughs breathlessly, angling herself back toward his mouth, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard. He takes the hint happily and moves back, pressing his tongue against her, curling it around her clit. She moans, pressing herself against his mouth, and he loses all control. Her hips come off the bed again and he latches on, sucking her into his mouth before letting go and continuing his assault with his tongue.

Mulder pulls back and traces her center with his index finger, pushing it inside of her and bringing his lips back over her clit. “Jesus, Mulder,” she moans and starts thrusting against him again. His face and hand are getting slick as they rub against her skin, and he looks up again to see her head thrown back, eyes shut. She threads her fingers through his hair and yanks him up.

He does as he told, kissing every inch of her skin as he crawls up her, memorizing each curve and crease and hollow, endlessly mapping Scully in his mind.

“I’m going back to that later,” he rasps in her ear, and she moans softly underneath him. “Make that every day.”

It’s so small, this promise he’s making, a joke really, but the hidden meaning is everything to him. So when Scully flips him onto his back, crawls onto his lap, pulls down his pajamas and slowly lowers herself until he’s buried completely inside her, he can swear she’s promising back.

As she bends down to kiss him, he wants to tell her to screw the FBI, to come back to Washington tomorrow. He wants to offer to quit and move to Utah. He wants to tell her he loves her and that she’s so beautiful and brilliant that he’s not fully convinced the Earth doesn’t revolve around her. He wants her to know that the world doesn’t make sense without her by his side, that she is absolutely everything. Instead all he manages is an incoherent groan as she pulls away.

Scully starts to move on top of him, mouth gaping open and eyes fluttering closed. She reaches forward blindly, fumbling for his hand, fingers wrapping around his palm, leaving bruises in their wake. She’s using him as her anchor even though he is the storm stranding her at sea, removing all control from under her; he’d tease for her for her twisted logic if his hands weren’t grasping hers back just as hard.

He flips them over, pushing their foreheads together and fucking her slowly, drawing out every thrust because he knows he still won’t last long.

Because this is Scully with him now, only a breath away instead of across the country. Scully with her lips smiling against his ear instead of over the phone, Scully alive, cancer free, with her heart beating against his chest to prove it. And now Scully arching underneath him, pushing against his fingers on her clit as he comes inside her, crying out against him as she follows soon after, gripping his ass and biting into his collarbone.

***

Hours later, Mulder falls asleep with his head on her stomach as they lie in bed, eyes shutting as his lips brush confessions and promises along her bare skin. Her fingers comb through his hair in assent and he wonders which planets aligned to give them this breath of peace.

He wakes in the middle of the night and can barely make out her face in the darkness. She’s sitting up, her hands resting in his hair, and he shifts his head further into her palm to let her know he’s awake. Her sweatshirt scratches his nose and he wonders how she managed to get it on while he slept, questions why she put it on in the first place.

He pushes the bottom up with his nose, kissing just underneath her belly button then nipping at the little bit of skin on top; her fingertips start scratching absently at his hair. The room is heavy, the air thick, and he wonders why he’s lost the ability to breathe. “Why aren’t you sleeping?” he whispers, and she doesn’t answer.

“Mulder,” she says after several minutes, her voice firm and far away, like she’d been rehearsing while he slept, oblivious to the battle raging in her mind.

He looks up and through the dark and sees her worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

“What is it, Scully?” He asks, moving up on the bed to sit at her side. He reaches for the lamp but she stops him, grabbing his hand and placing it back on his lap.

She reaches forward, cups his cheek and carries its weight as he leans into her, letting his eyes slip closed and turning his head to kiss her palm. It’s overwhelmingly intimate, and when he opens his eyes he sees tears threatening to fall from hers.

“Mulder, after you go home, we can’t keep doing this. You know that, right?” Her watery eyes and shaking hand betray the sureness of her voice, the logic she’s using to convince herself of her words.

He sits back slowly and takes her in, his eyes adjusting to the dark to trail down tear-stained cheeks, as if she had cried for hours and refused to wipe any of it away, even long after she had stopped. His sweatshirt looks like it’s trying to swallow her whole; he’s never seen her look so impossibly small.

“What do you mean?” He asks, calculated and slow, as if any other reaction would scare her away. But still he grabs for her hand in a moment of need, linking it through his own.

“Mulder,” she pleas, biting back her lip again, because he’s supposed to already understand. He refuses to give her what she wants and lets his face fall until she continues. “If you had to choose between us and the X-files, which would you pick?”

 _I’m going to be sick,_ he thinks and stutters his way into a response. “I, I don’t understand your question.”

She squeezes his hand, lowers her eyes and drops her shoulders.

“Yes, Mulder. You do.”

“Are you fucking kidding me Scully?” He snaps, his anger pure; a combination of misdirected frustration and a bone-chilling cold spreading through his body.

“I can’t do this. I can’t stay here. You agreed, we need to play by their rules right now. It’s why you’re doing that bullshit work without complaint. It’s why I even still have a badge. This is just one more thing we have to do for now,” her voice is shaking, and he can see her straining not to reach for him, her heart lurching out of her chest.

And for just a moment he doesn't care that she loves him, doesn’t care that this is tearing her apart, because he can’t understand how he’s not supposed to kiss her anymore, how she thinks the FBI should have any say in this.

“You really want to give them this?” He snaps. “They’ve taken everything from you, your health and your sister and your life in Washington, and you’re really going to let them take this too?”

“We have to,” she whispers, voice cracking. “You know they’d use it against us.”

“Then why did you ever agree to start?” He all but yells, digging his fingers into his closed eyes, fighting the migraine and flood of tears he can feel sneaking up on him.

She sits there silently until he’s forced to look at her, to take in her quivering jaw.

 _Because I needed this,_ she responds through eyes begging him not to make her speak. _Because kissing you gave me enough life to make it through the next few months._

_Because, once again, she is nothing more than a pawn in this game to control him and she’s earned the right to be selfish._

She reaches out, curls her fingers around his bicep, and he wishes he didn’t understand why her actions contradict her words.

“I, I can’t do this, Scully.” he stutters, launching himself off the bed. He takes a blanket and his boxers and shuts the door behind him.  
_  
One day to screw everything up,_ he thinks as he collapses on the couch, _that’s a new record._

***

Mulder had watched her drive away all those months ago, amazed at how he could suddenly be so high and so empty at the same time.

He'd returned to his apartment with the ghost of her leaving his lips tingling, and without thinking he’d found himself shoving his way into his bedroom, unstacking box after box until he could see the edges of a bed he’d slept on less than a dozen times. He doesn’t need it, but Scully may if she comes back, he thinks, and that’s enough to spend day after day sorting through everything he’d stored, throwing away and reorganizing and lugging boxes to the office until there were just a dozen lying next to freshly washed sheets.

Now he stares at the cracked leather of her couch wondering how he ever used to do this. He’s hopelessly trying to push his knees in further until his legs stop dangling off.

Just hours ago she’d kissed him as he promised her a future, and he’d naively assumed that meant she wanted it too. He thought it was a pact, a promise, the understanding that they are more than a one night stand in a snow globe (the fresh coat of frost on the windows is there solely to mock him, he thinks).

He tosses and turns throughout the night, restless but unable to close his eyes. He tries and tries but can’t silence the voice that’s asking how, now that he’s slept next to Scully, he’s supposed to sleep alone ever again.

As the sun starts to peek through the windows, Scully appears and lifts the blanket covering him. She nudges him until he’s lying on his side and and edges herself against him.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers as he wipes tears from her bloodshot eyes, and he understands that she hasn’t changed her mind.

“What are you doing here, Scully?” He sighs, exhausted, just seconds from begging her to change her mind.

She leans forward and kisses him and they both pretend she’s not breaking his heart as she threads her fingers through the hair at the back of his neck and refuses to pull away. He’s stuck by how all-consuming their need for each other is, how ridiculous it suddenly is that they still won’t let themselves have it even though they’ve finally let themselves act on it, crossing what he thought would be their biggest barrier, how cruel the world is that she finds it necessary to stop them.

But as much as he wants to blame her, he softens in her arms. He can feel her crack beneath his fingertips and he tells himself that he alone has the ability to piece her back together, even though it will probably be years before she lets him try. If only he didn’t know that he’s lying to himself, that she’s Scully and there’s nothing she can’t do on her own, no matter what her fingers clinging to his back would have him believe.

He wonders if he taught her this tendency to self destruct, to think that work overrules all, to think she needs a thoroughly broken heart before she can properly chase lights in the sky.

It’s his fault, he knows. His fault that she’s here and broken, his fault that he loves her, his fault that he can’t have her and his fault that she’s hurting, so he kisses her head and whispers promises into the night, that they’ll do whatever it takes, that they’ll forget this happened if that’s what she needs.

He pretends they're strong enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He’s not sure if he should be here, if she even wants him near her; she hadn’t called once since her reassignment, had only sent a brief email with her flight details, signed “I’ll see you Monday.”_

It’s a trick of light, he thinks, the neon red of the Budweiser sign tinting his amber whiskey to perfectly match her hair. With his cheek cool against the wooden bar and his eyes glued to his shot glass, he commends himself for the hundredth time on his last-minute decision to leave his phone at home. He doesn’t want to check for the fifty-first time that night if she’d called him, just to be disappointed again.

The glass rattles as the stool next to him is filled. He lifts his head and shoots the liquor down his throat. 

“Here I thought you’d be celebrating,” Skinner says, and even through Mulder’s drunken haze, he knows his once-again boss is exhausted. 

“I am celebrating,” he responds and flags down the bartender for another drink. He tips the shot toward Skinner, “and it’s all thanks to you, Sir.”

“Ungrateful bastard,” Skinner mutters, just loud enough for Mulder to hear, too quietly for him to care. “What did she say when you talked to her?”

Mulder wipes a drop of whiskey off his upper lip with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, the one she’d worn as she’d broken his heart, and for a brief moment he’s convinced she’s there, her smell faded but still sewn into the threads. 

“I couldn’t reach her,” he lies and racks his brain to figure out why she hasn’t called, because she still does every night without fail. When he’d come back to DC two months ago, she’d kept to their routine, and he’d been strong for her, pretended he was okay, ignored the fact that they didn’t bring up the only thing that matters: his night in her bed and her hands in his hair, the broken hearts barely beating in their chests. 

Mulder’s fidgeting, rolling the empty glass in circles and tapping it gently against the table, biting at his lip to keep his mouth shut until he can’t anymore. “How did you get roped into babysitting me?”

“You had the bartender call me, Mulder. How many of those have you had?”

“Sixty-two,” he answers after a long pause. 

Skinner drags his hand to his face, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. He’s seen Mulder drunk countless times before, but Mulder knows it’s never quite been like this. This time there’s no drunken rambling, no inappropriate affection, just a heart pulled out of his chest. 

“Sixty-two days and,” Mulder repeats and checks his watch, “eight hours and sixteen minutes. Give or take two hours for the time difference.”

The exact time from when he’d stolen a last kiss at his gate, ignoring her tears as she squeezed his hand goodbye.

“C’mon, Mulder. Pay your tab and let’s get out of here,” Skinner sighs and calls the bartender back over. Mulder hands over a wad of cash and considers asking if he can use the phone before he loses his nerve. 

But Skinner grips his bicep and lifts him from the stool, hooks Mulder’s arm around his neck, and they stumble toward the door. This part Skinner has done before, at least a handful of times, and Mulder’s sure his boss is just grateful that he hasn’t once tried to kiss his cheek and rub his head or started talking about Area 51. 

“She smiles and she laughs. A lot.” Mulder says suddenly, and his eyes are faraway, lit up and peaceful. “It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

“What are you talking about, Mulder?”

“Scully. The rare moments when she lets herself be happy. It’s really something.”

Skinner doesn’t respond but instead leads Mulder to his car and tries to push him into the passenger seat. Mulder jerks away suddenly, regretting each word he’s said aloud, a violation of his own privacy, of Scully’s trust. “I want a cab,” he insists, and wanders into the road to hail one, almost getting run over before he succeeds. 

“Georgetown,” Mulder orders after he’s slid into the cab’s backseat, leaving his boss behind. He directs the car to her apartment, struggles to stand upright as he walks to her door and scrapes the lock with her key until it slides into the slot. He stumbles into her bedroom and curls himself into a ball on top of her bedspread. 

Mulder closes his eyes, lets his head sink into the pillow and tries to remember why he’s never allowed himself this luxury before. With the smell of her around him, he drifts off and can almost hear her as she’d packed up the apartment, brushing him off when he’d asked why she was still keeping it and how she could afford two rents. “It’s all just temporary,” she’d said, lips almost rising in a sad smile. 

***

He knocks on her door on Saturday evening, a pizza box in one hand, a shopping bag in the other. He’s not sure if he should be here, if she even wants him near her; she hadn’t called once since her reassignment, had only sent a brief email with her flight details, signed “I’ll see you Monday.”

He can’t tell if she’s serious, if she really expects them to go back and pretend nothing ever happened, that he didn’t imprint his love on her skin with every breath and she didn’t cling to him inside her like she had nothing else in the world (and maybe then she didn’t and now she does and he hates that some part of him wishes that hadn’t changed).

She answers the door, trying her best to look exasperated, but he can read every bit of her body language telling him he should stay.

He’s tempted to kiss her cheek, in that way the world has decided is platonic, but she steps too far away before he can try, and he’s left wondering how there was ever a moment, even briefly, when this had been easy.

“Welcome back,” he says, handing her the bag. She raises an eyebrow when she looks inside: bread, salt and wine. “Jewish tradition, for a new home.” He attempts a smile.

“This isn’t a new home Mulder, and since when do you follow Jewish traditions?”

“It just felt like the right thing to do.” _And I have no idea what else to do with myself._

She rolls her eyes, with an obvious exaggeration, and his heart flutters at the sight of her teasing him. 

Their evening is almost silent, a peaceful quiet as she unpacks her suitcases and they both clean her kitchen. He catches himself staring at her more often that not, as if unable to believe she’s real, and in wonderful, rare moments she meets his eyes and almost smiles. 

But she stops him from getting too close, avoids sitting on the same couch as they eat dinner and ducks his hand when it returns to its home on her back. He’s terrified that they’ve devolved more than he expected. Some part of him had begrudgingly accepted that it may be months or years before he could kiss her again, let alone sleep with her, but he’d never imagined she’d shy away from the most familiar of touches. 

It’s only after they’ve finished half a bottle of wine each that she doesn’t pull away when he reaches out to toy with her fingers. He hooks his index finger through hers, swinging it gently.

“Can I stay?” he asks in a moment of weakness, staring at their hands, hoping the night may have worn her down, proven they have nothing to worry about. 

She doesn’t speak for a moment, but then squeezes his finger. “I’ll call you a cab,” she says, and as she finds the phone he realizes his fate is sealed. 

At the door he pulls her into a long overdue hug and buries his nose into her hair, breathes her in. She wraps her arms around his waist and for a moment deepens the embrace; he kisses her forehead and stares for a moment into her bloodshot, watery eyes before leaving with a heavy heart. 

***

They fall into their old work rhythm so well that it makes his stomach churn. She’s professional and brilliant, the perfect mix of devil’s advocate to his overeager imagination and support against the beatings he takes from the world. It’s better than nothing, he supposes.

But he’s never been as good with masks, so he tries for pure distraction, becoming more obsessive in his work than he’s ever been. He needs clarity, needs focus, needs something on this Earth to have an answer, but it doesn’t stop him from constantly thinking about how, more than anything, he just needs to hold her again. 

He’s shorter with her than he used to be, both quiet and condescending, and when he talks at her she looks as if she regrets it all. 

Their first case out of town, she slips into her motel room without so much as a goodnight, but his phone rings an hour later as he settles into bed. For the first time in three weeks, he holds it to his ear as he falls asleep, her breathing making his head spin, restoring order to his world.

***

She’s been back for a little over a month when she knocks on his motel room door, her suitcase in hand and rain soaking through her coat. They’re in the Missouri Bootheel, chasing after a murderer that he argues is a werewolf but she persists is just a meth addict. When they'd arrived just after midnight, the manager handed them keys to the last available rooms. 

As soon as he opens the door, she pushes her way past him, shucking off her coat and kicking off her shoes. He almost lets himself believe that this is the moment things are going to change back to the way they should be. 

“My room is disgusting, I’m sleeping here,” she says without a beat of hesitation, as if she gives such orders everyday. But she refuses to meet his eye, in that way that makes him doubt every word she’s saying but still leaves him lost to her intentions.

He nods slowly, grabbing a pillow to take to the floor, but one unguarded look from her makes him pause, makes him instead slide under the covers and wait while she changes. She’s still miles away when she lies down facing him, and he wants to hold her, wants to hate her, wants to feel anything other than total emptiness. 

They’re silent and still for an unbearably long time, until she trails her fingers up his arm and through his hair, whispers that she’s sorry. It’s more than he can handle and he huffs off the bed and leaves the room before she can see him break down yet again, stopping only to grab his wallet and shoes. 

He fingers the spare key to her room and opens the door, preparing himself for the disaster that made her turn to him, and is instead overtaken by the spotless comforter, the newly polished desk, the almost sparkling shower. He lies down on the bed and stares at the ceiling as the hours pass by, refusing to let himself think about why she’d do this to him. 

***

Mulder doesn’t run away the next night, even as she sits cross-legged on his bed in too-big pajamas and pretends either of them still believes her room is filled with mold; the cruel rain beating on the windows is their only soundtrack. 

All day he’d been angry at her for playing with his heart, for pushing him away while crawling toward him, but she’s impossible to resist when she looks this young and scared. He still doesn’t really understand how she thinks something so life affirming as her lips on his could send her back across the country, but he’s losing his patience trying to read her increasingly closed-off mind. So when she gets under the covers, he curls himself under her chin, an arm wrapped around her waist and his heart on his sleeve. 

He kisses her neck, just once; presses his lips to the warm skin as long as she’ll let him, and for a moment her fingers tighten on his back, holding him to her. When he slips away, she kisses his forehead and then turns around to fall asleep. 

She wakes in the middle of the night to him staring down at her, and she kisses him just once; he can almost taste the silent apology on her lips. She burrows into his side, twining a leg through his and curling an arm around him. “Go back to sleep,” she slurs sleepily into his neck, and he does. 

In the morning he wraps his arms around her as she brushes her teeth, pressing his pajama clad body against hers and kissing her neck as softly as he can, his closed eyelashes fluttering against her shoulder. In this moment, his entire world is reduced to the smell of her hairspray and her toothpaste, the softness of her skin against his cheek. 

“I love you, Scully. That’s not going to change.” he mumbles into her shoulder, and it’s not quite a confession, not a declaration or a plea, just a simple statement of fact. He closes his eyes and buries his head in her neck for a long moment. She lets her eyes slip closed, leans her head against his and clasps his hand. He peers into the mirror to see a tear hover on her eyelid as her hand grips his tighter. 

“Not right now, Mulder. Please,” she chokes out, and with a lingering kiss on her cheek, he lets go and walks away.


End file.
